


BLC

by Rag



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Universe, Communication Failure, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Lack of Communication, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Incest, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 04:21:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11119821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rag/pseuds/Rag
Summary: dave has been feeling off for a while, and this fucking movie is the straw that breaks his far-overloaded camel's back





	BLC

**Author's Note:**

> read them tags

You used to think no one could surpass John on his throne of awful taste in media. Then you got within a 500-foot radius of Karkat’s DVD collection. If you didn’t like him so much, you might avoid him on the basis of that monstrosity alone. But you do like him, a whole gosh-darn lot. He makes you feel all these warm and mushy-gushy feelings in what you’d thought was a heart of hardened stone. You like him so much that not only has his weird histrionic way of phrasing things bled itself into your psyche, but also, that you willingly subject yourself to his awful movies. The one he picked out for tonight seems especially bad, and you’re actually looking _forward_ to it. He doesn’t mind if you talk shit on the movies, as long as you keep your lips closed (his words) during the gag-worthy romance scenes. You reckon it a fair exchange.

Tonight’s terrible choice features a main character with a cursed dick that makes girls he fucks want to fuck other people. The second you realize that this is actually the premise of the film, not just a throwaway joke but the honest-to-god premise of a feature length picture, you almost cry with laughter, because it’s so fucking absurd. You’re sitting on a space ship rock with an alien who kind of created your species and both of your worlds are deader than fucking doorstops and yet this movie about some dillhole’s cursed dick remains in perpetuity.

You’ve been feeling kind of weird lately, honestly. Lots of almost crying while you laugh a little too hard about pretty unfunny things. You try to keep a lid on it around Karkat, because to say that he doesn’t appreciate it is putting it mildly. He pauses the movie and crosses his arms, and you breathe as deep as you can to try to keep it from spilling out.

“Are you done?”

You nod.

“It’s not even that funny. You laugh at the weirdest shit lately and it’s creepy.”

“That’s what _makes_ it so funny. That it’s not. It’s hilarious.” You sniffle a little and sweet Jesus you need to cool it. These past few weeks you’ve felt yourself losing your grip on what little control you have left and you do not want to let go and deal with whatever the fallout of that would be.

The look on Karkat’s face tells you beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s not buying it.

“Are you okay?”

Not really, no, but you can’t just _say_ that. “Nah, I’m good. Let’s watch this thing.”

He presses play and starts it up again, and you keep yourself more or less in check. You reserve your laughter for moments where it makes sense, and you don’t go full-ham crazy with it. The romancey scenes are honestly kind of gross but you think that about every romance scene you’ve ever seen in anything ever, and you think it probably has a lot more to do with you and less to do with the movie. So you look away, and/or watch Karkat instead during those scenes. He gets so enamored with this gushy romantic stuff and it’s really darn cute.

The two of you creep closer and closer together as the movie goes on and on and by the time the thing hits its climax, he’s sprawled in your lap and you’re absently scratching his head and it is just totally fucking prime. You wonder if, after it wraps up (he usually insists on watching through the credits, because the songs are carefully chosen and integral to the plot), he’d be up for some close personal bonding time right here on the couch.

And then you look up and the main character is fucking a stuffed animal, and just like that the fiery stirrings of your young loins are replaced with nausea and you don’t know why. Not right away. Lucky for you, the scene just lasts and lasts and lasts and you remember shit you’d wanted to forget. Your brother showing you dildos when you were eight, having you stick your finger inside of a smuppet’s ass and telling you, _that’s where you stick your dick_. Flipping it over and telling you where the nose went. _Think about how good it’d feel, this is quality shit_. You wanted to leave, but you stayed, because he didn’t like it when you left in the middle of something. He would drag you back by your arms or your hair and make you finish listening to whatever he had to say. So you stayed and he explained to you what a fetish was.

“Dave?”

“What?”

“Are you okay?”

“Golden,” you say, and your voice sounds a little too clipped. “Never been better. Have I told you this movie sucks?”

He rolls his eyes. “You’ve mentioned that, yeah. This scene is dumb, I’ll admit it.”

“Yeah, you’re telling me.”

It might be giving away a little too much but god you need to put something else in your thinkpan, something other than those smuppets he would leave everywhere. Sometimes he covered them with lube just to fuck with you. He knew you hated them. He’d lay traps for you where you’d have to follow the puzzle and open the door and you’d know what would be behind it and you opened it anyway and wow fucking incredible, a mountain of sex toys coming at your face.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You’re acting weird.”

“ _I said I’m fine_ ,” you snap, and woah, cool has been lost in officially record time! Your muscles are tight and your posture is stiff and of course he feels that when he’s draped over you like this. You pull yourself back and put some space between you.

You briefly consider telling him about it, but, yeah, no.

“Don’t tell me you’re … Dude, did watching him fuck a toy turn you on? That’s kind of gross, even for you.”

You. Want to vomit.

You can leave, that’s a thing you can do. An obvious thing. But it would lead to Questions, maybe. Maybe not. You can’t really think. You really shouldn’t be having this much of a reaction at all, because it wasn’t that big of a deal. It was gross and fucked up and maybe categorically. Maybe categorically it was. But he didn’t like. Go the whole mile what with the. Like. With the.

Karkat laughs. “Seriously? Dave, that’s-“

“No.” You rack your brain for a clever comeback but you’re kind of broken at the moment. Out of order. Wit, cruel and capricious mistress, has deserted you in your moment of need.

“Uh. I mean, I might give you shit for it, but if that’s what you’re into … like, it’s weird, but it’s not that big of a deal?”

This is. Literally the worst. You’re in hell.

The shortest and fastest way out is to tell him. Tell your boyfriend why you’re having a conniption fit about this shitty romcom. But you can’t just _tell people_ this kind of thing. You can’t tell anyone, not even Karkat, not in a serious way. But you can joke about it and hope he takes the hint.

“Kinda nothing I hate more,” you hear yourself say. “And not in a kinky troll way. That shit is seriously making me gag more than Ron Jeremy in a bath of mayonnaise.”

Karkat looks confused. “Do you… want me to turn it off?”

Bless his soul. “It’s whatever. If you want.” You pray he takes the hint. He does. He turns it off. What a pal. You feel yourself start to relax as the sweet sound of awkward silence rings in your ears.

“Why do you, uh-“

“No reason, dude. It’s just wrong. Don’t you think so?”

“Dave.” He gives you this pitying look that’s probably somewhere between the troll sense of the word and the human one.

You wish your mind would stop insisting you were in danger so you could just talk to your fucking boyfriend about this like a normal person. But there it goes, insisting that you’re in danger, not from Lord English or Jack Noir, not from the uncaring vacuum of space, but from your brother, who’s been dead over a year now, who will never fucking touch you again, thank god, he’ll never hit you or throw a dildo at your face because he’s gone, holy shit, he’s actually fucking dead. Tears are stinging your eyes and they’ll fall if you don’t stop this train of thought but you can’t, the train has blown past the station and is hurling straight towards your gut. He’s gone. He’s legitimately dead and not coming back. The guy you spent most of your life with, looking up to and hating and avoiding even as you tried to emulate him. Fucking stabbed through the chest by some hell demon you kind of sort of created.

“Dave?” Karkat’s voice is really soft and you can tell he knows you’re crying before you feel the drop hit your robe. “Do you want to be alone?”

You want to say yes. You _should_ say yes. You’re vulnerable and being vulnerable in front of people means pain. You were raised to front up until you could hide and lick your wounds alone.

But you don’t want him to leave.

You shake your head. “I mean, unless this is weirding you out. Then by all means. Bail. It’s fine. I’ll be fine. Wouldn’t hold it against you, that’d be a serious dick move on my part-“

“I’ll stay,” he says, cutting off your babbling before it has a chance to really take off. He reaches out and awkwardly puts a hand on your shoulder. You grab him for a full hug, and he wraps his arms around you. It feels good. It feels really good. His sweater is kind of stanky but it’s a good stank.

You realize that from Karkat’s perspective, this must be completely baffling. You should explain. You should try to explain.

“I- I- My- He-“

Yeah, it’s not happening, between how weak your voice is and how close you are to sobbing. Good try, solid effort, not a passing grade.

And even if you had the voice, you don’t know what you could say. The words aren’t there. And there’s always the chance that Karkat wouldn’t get it, and he’d hate you for it, or use it against you, and you can’t just fucking give anyone the key to you like that.

Not yet, at least. Maybe someday.

“Who? John?” he asks softly. He sounds a little freaked out, but more than that he sounds concerned.

You shake your head. Words, please, you need to say something. You take a deep breath.

“My brother?”

“Your guardian?

You nod.

“You miss him? Did the movie remind you of him?”

It’d be easy to nod. But you don’t.

“He fucking sucked,” you say, and holy shit does that feel good, even as another fat load of tears spring up from some heretofore-untapped well inside of you.

“Oh.” He sounds baffled. You don’t want to explain more. “I’m sorry, man.”

You hug him tighter, and he squeezes his arms tight around you, and rubs your scalp softly with his hand.

This is so fucking weak, but somehow it doesn’t completely suck. It’s weird. It’s scary, and you still feel like you’re about to get kicked, but it feels good. And you keep expecting him to get up and leave, or tell you to suck it up, but he doesn’t.

You can’t say any more. The words dry up in your brain before they have a chance to hit your throat. But for the first time, you feel like you can trust someone with it. Maybe. It’s more than you’ve ever felt about it.

“Thanks.”

**Author's Note:**

> bro is a fucknugget  
> also this is probably the last davekat flashback story i write, at least for a while. think i got it outta my system. got some (relatively) more fun stuff planned that im looking forward to


End file.
